"I did not report them at all. I did not mention it to any one."
"Is that true?" asked Dick, dubiously.
"Boy! I should never tell you what was not true."
Dick stood puzzled. It was Mr. Henry's word against common sense; against the conviction of the whole school. Nothing would come of arguing the matter, even had Mr. Henry been disposed to argue it, and Dick turned to leave, saying something in a complaining tone about having to get to his lessons in play hours.
"Do you find them difficult?" asked Mr. Henry.
"Difficult?" returned Dick, as if the question were an aggravation. "It's that horrid Euclid. Nothing ever bothers me as that does."
"Bring it to me; I daresay I can smooth your mountains for you by a little explanation."
"Do you mean it?" cried Dick, a spring of gratitude in his voice. "But it is not in your work. You have nothing to do with Euclid."
"Never mind that. Fetch it now."
Dick flew for his books. Mr. Henry did smooth the mountains, patiently, kindly; and he bade him always come to him in the same stumbling-blocks—every evening if he liked. Mrs. Butter made her appearance once, which Dick regarded as an agreeable interlude, for it enabled him to ask affectionately after the shorn cock and the other animals, to the lady's great wrath. She had a pair of new boots in her hand for Mr. Henry; the man, she said, was waiting for the money. Mr. Henry replied that it was not convenient to pay him then; he would send it in a day or two.